


Rule 6(1)3

by chelonianmobile



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelonianmobile/pseuds/chelonianmobile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme stuff involving genderbent characters, various pairings and ratings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vriska/boy!Vriska, Eridan/girl!Eridan, T

Your name is VRASKI SERKET. You are a master of EXTREME ROLEPLAYING, a constructor of DOOMSDAY DEVICES, and a keen DESTROYER OF MAGIC 8-BALLS. Until recently, you lived in the mountains of the planet ALTERNIA, hunting daily with your SPIDER LUSUS. Males of the species are small enough not to be confined to their web valleys. Sometimes you wished yours was so confined; it was MOST UNNERVING to wake up with him looming over your recuperacoon. Still, you loved him. RIP, Spiderdad.

Currently, you are STRANDED in an abandoned LABORATORY on a METEOR in THE VEIL. You and your FRIENDS have been attempting to get back into an INHABITED UNIVERSE. Your attempts have been UNSUCCESSFUL so far, and your leader, KARATA VANTAS, is getting EVEN BITCHIER THAN USUAL. The perpetually cheerful CROWN PRINCE FERIFE PEIXES has been trying to keep everyone's SPIRITS UP. You wish to PUNCH HIM.

ARADAI MEGIDO'S latest attempt at finding a NEW UNIVERSE has FAILED, merely bringing you into another NULL SESSION. This one, however, is decidedly INTERESTING.

~~~

"What I don't get is how your Makara is still a boy," Vriska says, tossing and catching a magic 8-ball one-handed. You've found a reasonably private hideaway block in her world's version of the lab, and have taken the opportunity to build a pile for a feelings jam with the only person who truly understands how cool you are.

"Gamzey? Uh, she's not. I think. Not like I checked." You shrug, and pitch your voice higher and more wavery in an imitation of the stoner. "'Motherfuckin' gender, how does it work?'"

"Oh yeah, ours says that. I think Kanaya gets what he means better than the rest of us. What about your Captor?"

"Boy dreamself on Derse, girl on Prospit?"

"Vice versa!" She cackles and you join her, even though it's not all that funny. Your mass of hair flops in your restored sevenfold eye, and you brush it away. "That's a lot of Captors, huh?"

"Yeah. Ugh, one Sollix was enough."

"Where'd you get the black eye?"

"Equisa," you groan. "Caught me trying something with Tavrys, said it's not gentlemanly and made my arm punch me."

"Ooh. Mine does that. Your Nitram as big a wuss as mine?"

"Bigger. I don't know why I bother with her." You look sideways at your counterpart, and smile. "You're cooler."

"Of course. We have all the awesomeness."

"Aaaaaaaall of it!" You high five.

You hear giggling. Why do you hear giggling? You get up, groaning as the feeling comes back into your legs, and peer out into the corridor.

Erinda Ampora and her own clone appear to be getting on well, you see. They have their arms wrapped around each others' shoulders and are flouncing down the corridor, whispering and giggling together. He waves a hand, and you're fairly sure she's painted his claws for him. They turn the corner, and you realise they're heading in the direction which, in your own copy of the lab, leads to Ampora's block. Presumably her male clone's claimed the analogous space here.

"Blech. Ampora's really desperate. How sad do you have to be to resort to making out with yourself?" you comment.

"Hehe, yeah," Vriska mutters. Her eyes shift back and forth.

"Oh, you're not seriously considering it?" you groan.

"Hey, who else can truly appreciate us?" she says with a pout.

"Good point." You think about it, and sit back down beside her. "Fine, fine, I'll just think of Nicola Cage."

You're lying, and you're pretty sure she knows it. Her fangs dig into your lips and tongue, yours into hers, and you smirk with pride as you mentally measure the venom sacs squished against your chest. _Niiiiiiiice._ Magic 8-ball shards dig into your back. You wonder if the Megidos can keep the portal open. This place is fun.

She's biting less now, being more careful. Is this a flushed kiss? You slow down yourself, and she chirps happily in response. Huh. One awkward quadrant-flipping kiss with Tavrys didn't really count. This is your first flushed-quadrant makeout, and it's with yourself.

Well, they do say your early experiences should be with someone you respect.


	2. Sis Strider, Dad Lalonde, girl!Dave, boy!Rose, G

His hair is as fair as yours, immaculately gelled, and his eyes rosepetal pink. The silver watch must have cost more than your entire outfit, and puts your clunky gold to shame. Less in the way of cup size than your preferred type, but you can't deny he's easy on the eyes. You straighten from your usual slouch on the uncomfortable park bench. You chew your cigarette and pat your pockets, and he holds out a lighter.

"Can't leave a lady hanging," he says. A New Yorker, it seems.

You nod politely, and try to spot his kid on the playground. You spot the boy soon; same hair, sharp purple eyes, a furrowed brow. He's perched on a swing with a book, as Dove sits on the swing beside him and throws herself higher, flying like her namesake. The man beside you glances at your sister, and back to you, and you nod again.

"That one yours?" you ask.

"Yes, that's my Ross. And you would be Dian Cicely Strider, I take it?" he asks.

You look at the monogram on the lighter. _R. L._ Spirograph cufflinks.

"Skaianet?"

His turn to nod. You smirk, and shake your new friend's hand.


	3. Girl!Sollux<>Boy!Feferi<3Girl!Karkat, G

Ferife is tall and broad and handsome, and everything a Tyrian prince should be. Beside him, tiny little Karata feels like nothing, less than that even, and she wonders why he let her lead. She glares at him as he cuddles up and whispers with Sollix in the horn pile; what a patronising nookmunch, picks up the lowblooded girls and thinks they should be grateful for his royal attention. No, she is not jealous, not a bit.

Sollix doesn't look like she feels patronised, and Sollix would be smart enough to know. She looks perfectly at ease, the hint of a non-sarcastic smile on her lips (have they been painted?) for once. Erinda's glaring, and the two in the pile are ignoring her. Ferife takes Sollix's hands, and Sollix glows. She looks like she feels like a princess.

Karata feels nauseous. Purely at the sickening display, of course. She can't take it anymore; she shoves herself to her feet and stalks off to her room.

~~~

It's been hours. Hours of watching old romcoms, one's she's seen over and over and over. She found herself mouthing the words along with one, and switched it off in a sulk. Now she's staring at the wall, fuming to herself. There's a knock at the door.

"Karata?"

She stomps to the door to find Ferife, standing tall as ever but a little pink in the face and smelling nervous. He reminds her of Equisa now. "What?"

"I'm sorry, did I come in at a bad time?"

"Your prerogative, _your Highness,"_ Karata says stiffly.

"Okay, now I know something's wrong. You don't usually even fake politeness." His eyes widen. "Oh dear, Sollix told me you might be jealous."

"Jealous? Why would I be jealous?" Karata snarls. "I'm ecstatic. I just adore watching my best friend snuggling with you, I love watching the little metaphorical hearts spilling all over-"

"Hearts? Oh! No," Ferife laughs, a deep laugh which will reach booming levels once he's an adult. "Actually, that was what she and I were talking about. We just decided to officially declare pale. She said you might be jealous she's spending more time with me now."

Karata's bloodpusher leaps, and she tries to shove it back down. Of course, a prince would never take a lowblood for a breeding quadrant, wouldn't sully his bucket in such a manner. Her anger wilts. "Oh."

"And..." He shifts his feet and smiles. "She said she thought you might... but maybe she was wrong. I'm sorry."

Karata frowns, and asks "Wrong about what?..." She meets the prince's eyes, sees his blush is still present, and it clicks. Oh. A spiteful jibe rises automatically to her tongue, but she holds it. Maybe, just maybe, everything else has gone to shit but she can still have this. "Uh. If you mean what I think you mean... she wasn't wrong."

Ferife takes her hands, as he did Sollix's. She has to crane her neck to keep looking him in the eye as he moves closer. His hands are freezing, and big enough to envelop hers entirely; hers warm them a little. He grins. "I'm glad. I like you a lot, Karata, I'm sorry if I made you jealous. You really shouldn't worry! You kept us working together better than I could, and you're a much better person than you think you are."

Funnily enough, she believes him. She nods, looking up at him from behind her hair, and her frown softens.

He lifts her up until they're eye to eye, and now she feels like a princess.


	4. Girl!Equius<3<Girl!Gamzee, X

Your name is EQUISA ZAHHAK, and this is a VERY IMPORTANT PARTY. The CROWN PRINCE FERIFE PEIXES will, in THREE DAYS, face HIS IMPERIOUS CONDESCENSION in MORTAL COMBAT. He has invited all his WRIGGLERHOOD FRIENDS to a GOOD LUCK PARTY which you AGREED TO HOST, as you have the most room for everyone; if he does not succeed, it will retroactively become a GOODBYE PARTY. You try not to think about that. Despite his LAX views on the HEMOSPECTRUM, you do LIKE HIM. You ignore the PUNCH which your MOIRAIL NEPETO LEIJON is drinking, surreptitiously sip from your HIP FLASK of MILK, and await your DANCING PARTNER.

"Hell-ooooo, my main motherfuckahs!"

The familiar voice is lilting and would be pleasant if it was not coming from such a reprehensible person as your beloathed. Your hackles rise, as do your eyebrows when you turn to see her. You regard her disdainfully through your dark-lensed lorgnette.

Well, at the very least she is wearing actual clothes and not her pyjamas or underwear, as you half expected. A nice gown, in fact, deep purple silk with a ruffled bell-shaped skirt adding a little shape to her hips, purple roses twining over her shoulders to hold it up. But the left strap is broken, the skirt is too short and the hem is skewed enough to expose her petticoats (presumably worn on pain of death at Kanayo's hands), there are sticky stains all over the front, and _why is she still wearing her filthy sneakers and tracking mud all over your clean floor?_

The clown paint surrounding purple lipstick doesn't even faze you, you never expected her to show up without it, but at the very least she might have combed her hair, even if washing it was beyond her grasp. Ferife might die this week, she should show at least a little respect for her friends in what might be their final meeting! Of course, you wouldn't hate her so deeply if she showed respect, and Ferife probably won't care.

"Gamzey Makara," you say coolly. She grins lopsidedly and throws an arm over your shoulder.

"Hey, my hoofbeast-fuckin' spade-sister." One sneakered foot slides between your own, hiking up the hem of your own navy silk gown and staining it with sand and mud. "Reckon I could get me a dance?"

"You might have arrived sooner, Makara, I have had plenty of time to fill my dance card for the night," you say, looking away and wrinkling your nose at her sopor breath. She almost wilts, pouting enough to crack the thick layer of white face paint. You relent. "But I did of course save a slot for my dear kismesis."

"Fine, then put your motherfucking speccy stick away, I need your hands."

"It is called a lorgnette. Did you never pay attention to your etiquette schoolfeeding?"

"Did I ever pay attention to _any_ of my motherfucking schoolfeeding?" she snickers.

"Good point." You put away the lorgnette and wrap one STRONG hand around her tiny and deliciously snappable wrist, and her other hand clasps your neck, smearily-painted claw resting on the vein. Your lips meet hers, teeth clashing, blood and lipstick mixing into an indecorous mess. God, you hate her so much your bloodpusher could just burst.

She pulls away and licks her lips. "Your motherfucking breath still tasting like cheese, I see."

"No more talking." You pull her onto the dancefloor.

Formal dancing is of course a necessary skill for one of your blood, or of Gamzey's, and you are an expert. A suitably black tango is playing, and you move sharply, precisely, watching your partner as if she was your duelling opponent. She is surprisingly not bad, but resists your attempts to push her into the lead, as is appropriate for her rank. You scowl, and pull her along as well as you can, taking the opportunity to hack at her shins with your pointed shoes. Her sneakers are too soft to return the gesture, and you allow yourself a smirk as she spits on the floor.

"Should make you lick that up," she whispers in your ear, her thigh pressing between your legs, tangling your skirts. She looks down, scowls, grabs her skirt and petticoats, and rips them up to the hip for ease of movement. You're sweating so much your dress is ruined as well, and now so are your underpants. Your breath is coming faster, and your face must be dark blue. "Unless you're wanting to lick somethin' else, my sourspade, my blackrom baby?" Her tongue is crawling into your ear, and your knees are so weak you're almost hanging off her; at least she's STRONG enough to hold you up.

You glance around. Ferife is sitting in the corner pile with Sollix and Aradai, Nepeto and Erinda are dancing, as are Karata and Tereze, Vraski and Tavrys... nobody will miss you for a short time.

She runs up the stairs, you following hot on her tail, watching the flashes of skin as her torn skirts flutter and tear further, right up to her waist... yes, she's not wearing underwear, and her thighs are already becoming slick with purple. She is also wearing unmatched woollen kneesocks, one purple and black striped and one black with little red hearts, which adds a little extra bubble to the hatred boiling through you, and by now the tops of your stockings will be irreparably stained. Finally she reaches the couchblock; it's a good thing she got there first, you might have torn the door off its hinges with your desperation. She leaps gracefully right into the centre of the pailing couch, dirty shoes still on, scuffing and rumpling the covers. She stretches languidly and sighs, then yelps as you climb over her, hike up her skirt to her waist, and rip open the bodice of her dress.

"Hey, that was expensive..."

"I did nothing worse to it than you did, you slattern," you growl, and kiss her as roughly as you dare, not wanting to actually break her jaw. She yanks out your hairpins, scraping at your scalp with them, and your careful updo falls around you both. "You are the most reprehensible, disgusting... _un-ladylike_ troll I have ever had the misfortune of meeting."

Gamzey howls with laughter. "Ladylike?" Her eyes glitter. You suspect it's been a little longer than advisable since she last took her sopor. Her voice turns lower, raspier. "You up and thinkin' if you act 'ladylike' enough it'll add a little more pink to your blood, huh? Think if you kiss enough highblood's asses it'll turn out catching?"

"Shall I test it?" Before she can react, you slide down the bed, haul her legs over your shoulders, and bite her left buttock. She squeals, and you kiss and suck gently at the injured skin, tasting blood. "Doesn't seem to work, no. Nothing's changed colour except my teeth."

Her hands are working over her small chest sacs, and she slides one down and jams two fingers into herself. "Hehe. What's left of 'em, yep. Never thought you'd up and get yourself a sense of humour. Or talk back to a purple." 

"A highblood is only worthy of respect if they act like a highblood, Makara."

A third finger goes in. Her pelvis is tiny under the distinct layer of pudge caused by living almost entirely on high-sugar drinks, but her nook is remarkably accomodating. "Fuck, use those ugly man-hands of yours for something useful."

You bristle, strip off your gloves, and work two fingers in alongside hers, squeezing her hand between yours and her groin to prevent its removal. Your fingers are indeed rather thick, but she's wet enough that it's not a great strain. Your other hand is hastily rearranging your dress, and soon your fingers push your underwear aside and slide into your own nook. Fluid ruins the couch cover, and Gamzey's legs nearly strangle you.

"Fffffuck!"

"Your... your language," you pant, "is most un... unbecoming... of a young highblooded lady."

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" She grinds down on your hand, and you're sure you can feel the bones in her hand creaking as she tries to shove the last finger in. You shove one of her legs off your shoulder and force it up to her chest - she's flexible enough to barely notice - and then pull it back down, straddling it and gripping it between your thighs. "Sweet mirthful messiahs, Zahhak, fuck me harder! Split me in half! Break my motherfucking bones!"

You want to, oh God how you want to, but you don't. It would be rather hard to explain downstairs. Everyone will already know what you're doing, Gamzey is shrieking loudly enough to be heard even throughout your huge hive, but Gamzey needs to be able to walk home.

"Yeah, this is where you should motherfucking be!" she snarls, her eyes blazing, her free hand wrenching and clawing at the skin around the base of your horn. "Serving your fucking betters like you wanted! You were right all along! You're disgusting! You're a freak! A whore! A worthless bucketslut, can't do nothin' but pail with those willing and sweat and whimper at those who ain't!"

You have never been so turned on in your life. "Yes! Yes I am!" you hiss, hips pushing down against her thigh, the hem of her sock soaked through and rubbing strangely against your skin. "Yes, I'm a freak of nature, a disgrace to my blood, I'm good for nothing but this.."

Carefully, you change the angle of your fingers and pull up. She squeaks and, as you found out by chance she does when taken by surprise, accidentally drops her strife specibus. The clubs fall out, and you grab one before she can, the wood cracking and metal deforming in your grip; it's taking all your control not to kill Gamzey, your free hand is shaking. You reverse your grip on the club, ease your fingers out of Gamzey and drag her hand with it, and place the handle of the weapon at her entrance. Blood is mixing with the fluid; neither of you were careful with your claws. Her eyes widen, but she makes no motion to stop you.

You press her pelvis down so she can't push back, and slowly, carefully, teasing, you push the handle in, bit by bit, grating out "And _so... are... you!"_

A thin whine rises in her throat, reaching a scream as the handle presses in the right places, her hips trying unsuccessfully to buck. She kicks and squirms, her raised leg hitting you in the face but unable to get enough momentum to seriously hurt, doing all the work for you as her thigh rubs against you. You pause, making her scream again, this time with rage, and shuffle backwards off the couch, pulling her with you. You stand on the floor and her legs hang over the side; you decaptchalogue a pail, and position it. Not that it would make much difference, you've already made a terrible mess, but principle demands you make the effort. Gamzey squirms and squeals and tries to push back against the club, and you relent and set up a steady rhythm with it, letting her shrieks and curses wash over you. You unhook from her leg, put one knee up on the couch, and press the wide end of the club against your own nook opening, not trying to push it inside but setting up some good friction, mixing the purple with blue.

Finally, she arches her back and claws holes in the couch cover, and with a final piercing cry she fills the bucket. Watching her pushes you to the edge as well; a few more grinds against the club and you finish, breathing hard, covered in almost as much sweat as genetic material. You drop the club, captchalogue the bucket for later disposal, and crawl back on the couch beside her, where she sprawls with her tongue flopping out and her makeup sweated off.

"Do you gotta disrespect my church's traditional weapons that way? Aw, shit, spade-sister, you bent the handle! You owe me, Zahhak."

"Next time I insert the wide end," you mumble.

"In you or me?"

You shrug. "Either works."

She sits up and stretches, yawning wide, strips off the rags of her clothes, and mops herself up with the few clean spots of it. Once she is vaguely clean, she decaptchalogues something purple; a fresh gown, as fine as the ruined one. She plucks more items from her modus, the colours glimmering on her smeared face; cold cream, tissues, fresh paint and lipstick, underwear, a pair of respectable dancing shoes, and - surprise - a hairbrush.

"You planned this, didn't you?"

"Well, kittybro did. It's fishbro's last party on Alternia, I gotta show him some effort and I reckon he and the others don't wanna see this..." She points to the genetic fluid all over the couch. "But I couldn't let you feel left out, I gotta piss you off somehow." She grins obnoxiously and bites your ear, then gets up with her armful of clothing and heads for the adjoining showerblock.

You get up, rubbing your aching wrists. How sweet of her; little gestures like this remind you why you no longer merely find her platonically irritating, why you pledged your spade to her. You admit you are rather curious to see if Gamzey Makara can actually make herself resemble a proper lady. You bet she'll have to ask for Karata's help with the hairbrush. But never mind that for now; you totter out of the couchblock, your legs still trembling atop your unfamiliar high heels, to your respiteblock, to seek out a clean outfit. You hope Aurthora won't be too upset about the mess.


	5. Girl!Dave/Boy!Terezi, G

For a stocky boy - figure filled out by years of experimenting with flavours - he has very sharp elbows, Dove reflects as one jabs into her ribs. She looks up from her latest doodles of Sweet Sis and Hella Jess - she's resorted to sickly baby pink for Sis's shirt as Tereze hogs the red pens and pencils, and it actually works. Ironically feminine in the way neither she nor the characters have ever been. Tereze's got her onto something there; she'll add frills and piss off the lolita fashion crowd later. He points to the floor, and she sees his work.

Tereze's put a lot of effort into this drawing; still as clumsy as one would expect from one who has to judge the lines by scent, but in the manner of an impressionist rather than a random scrawler. The blurriness only adds to the sense of movement. It's an "Earth featherbeast" - a bird, a phoenix rising above a burning city in reds and golds, beneath a swirling sun. Tereze grins, scratches a jagged line through the sun, and scribbles black ovals almost over the bird's eyes.

"Hey, Dove," he says with a smirk. "Is this you?"


End file.
